


new history

by Nyxierose



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hair Braiding, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-04 20:40:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18820309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyxierose/pseuds/Nyxierose
Summary: "She could get used to the hidden gentleness of him."Post-s2 pre-relationship fluff.





	new history

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jouissance (restrained_ubiquity)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/restrained_ubiquity/gifts).



> Title and slight inspo from "New Histories" by Brooke Fraser. Also can be blamed on @restrainedubiquity on tumblr - I mentioned this concept as a sidenote in a different fic and... yeah.

The first full day after, she sleeps like she hasn't since… honestly, Abby has never _allowed_ herself this kind of rest, but her body crashes even harder than she expects and she has no control over any of it. The second and third days, she rests on and off. The fourth, she starts to get frustrated.

She is not a solitary creature by nature, but right now she has no choice. Her body has decided it is time to suffer all the consequences of her habitual neglect, and that combined with the recent violation - she has to call it _something_ and that will do nicely, she decides - means she's sidelined for a while. Standing up without help is currently not happening, and any form of productive activity is even less likely.

She knows it's temporary. A week or two at worst. She'll be fine, in the grand scheme of things. But for now, she is miserable.

She was just starting to get used to the concept of a wider world, fresh air in her lungs and rain on her skin. She will have those things again, she knows, but their absence feels damning as she is stuck once more in a metal box, this time without even the ability to pace across the small room. She shouldn't even have this space. Someone else, someone in worse condition, should be on this mattress. Not her. Not-

The door opens, and another feature of her current hell asserts itself.

A week ago, this would've felt strange; a month ago, completely unthinkable. But the man in her doorway is not who he was then, and she feels a strange warmth as he approaches. Her, feeling something about Marcus Kane that isn't near-homicidal anger. Not as new a sensation as she wishes it was, but still foreign enough to throw her off.

He checks on her every few hours, in between whatever else he's doing. She suspects he's slipped back into a natural leadership role, to whatever extent that's even possible amidst current chaos, and that doesn't bother her as much as she feels like it ought to. He's not what he was - she trusts him now, started trusting him at some point shortly before she crawled through a ruined city for him, and she's conflicted, and-

"Did I wake you?"

This caution, too, is new and conflicting. The softness of his voice as he stops just out of reach, the heavy emotions in his eyes, the general presence of him as someone who has _finally_ learned to act like a human being. All new, all probably her fault somehow, all terrifying.

"No," she replies, beckoning him closer. "Unfortunately."

He sits down in a chair that appeared at some point close to her bed - she has no idea where it came from, but she's not complaining. "Still…"

"Yeah."

Last time he checked on her, a few hours ago, they tried out her physical abilities. Which is to say that she took three steps on her own and then collapsed against him. The pain in her thigh isn't quite as bad as she was, and she suspects the problem right now is mostly just exhaustion. Another day or two, she'll be capable of normal activity. But today she is not, and she's angry, and-

"Anything I can do?"

The offer is genuine, another reflection of what he is becoming. Whatever she asks, she knows he'll at least try. This balance won't last long-term, but until she's functional again and until anyone's brave enough to explain where the hell her kid is…

Whatever happened, Abby reassures herself, it will be okay. Her daughter will be okay. The issue right now is _her_. She can… she can't…

She won't cry in front of another human being. She hasn't in years and she won't now. But she is tired on a level that sleep won't fix, and currently useless, and unable to do anything about _anything_ , and-

Focus. Back in her body, to the extent that she can be, to the extent that she is realizing everything sucks and she's not as resilient as she used to be. She's not twenty-six anymore, using stimulants to stay awake for four days at a stretch because a high-stress job and a small child weren't an ideal mix. Hell, right now staying awake for _one_ full day would be a nice change of pace. As soon as she can, she'll throw herself back in, she has to, she-

"Abby. Look at me."

She doesn't even have the energy to pick a fight with him. This is how bad she's getting.

"I'm fine, Marcus. You can go back to whatever you're actually supposed to be doing."

"I have time. We're figuring out better logistics, but I've done what I can today."

"And now you're here because I'm the only person you haven't annoyed enough today," she mutters, because if he keeps this up she is going to-

"I'm trying to take care of you," he counters.

And oh, that should not make her feel as good as it does.

She's not in any medical danger, she's figured out that much. In her current state, Marcus _is_ a capable caretaker. It doesn't take a lot of skill to change bandages, and he's brought her food as needed and found an extra blanket for her from god-knows-where, and it's working out. She needs some form of connection with the outside world; he needs something to affirm his humanity. Not a worst-case scenario for either of them. Not at all.

She needs to give him _something_ , she figures. Some little project to distract the both of them. And now that she thinks about it, there's a pretty obvious idea…

"Could you braid my hair?" she asks, voice shaking a little. She's had it loose since before the Bad Thing, but she wants something familiar. She could do it herself, she always has, but it would be nice to have someone else help. It's been too long since she's been touched with any kind of affection.

(No. It's been four days. This thing between them counts, and she needs to stop being so damned stubborn about it.)

"I don't know how," he replies. "Never done that before."

"It's as easy as it sounds, and I trust you. I need… there's a hairbrush somewhere in that dresser, I think. Should be a band around it."

He walks over and starts opening drawers. She feels like she ought to be more bothered by how comfortable he is exploring her space - she ought to be more bothered by almost everything this man does - but it feels right, him digging through her few personal possessions in an effort to help her. Him _here_ feels right, and she's scared of how their dynamic will change when she's functional again, and-

"This one?"

"Yes."

It takes a little maneuvering to get her body in an accessible position. It would be much easier if she could stand up, but as that is very sharply Not Happening, moving to the chair is the next best option. She does this on her own, still unstable but not as bad as a few hours ago, and this feels like confirmation of her expected timeline. Two or three more days at worst. She'll be okay. She'll-

"I don't want to hurt you."

"I trust you."

Marcus seems to have discovered a wide range of new emotions recently, and Abby thinks his current nervousness might be her favorite. She hasn't tried to deal with her hair in over a week and it's a mess, but she keeps calm as he works through the knots. He has definitely never done this before, but it's not bad as a trust fall and it'll be okay. She has never been particularly vain, and if she looks human, well… that'd be a vast improvement over how she feels.

"Three strands, right?"

"Yes."

He pulls a little tighter than she'd like, but she feels the transformation taking place. It'll be good enough, keep her hair out of her way if that should happen to matter at any point soon, and-

"I could… I could try to find a mirror for you. If you wanted."

Again, warmth. Again, she is unsure how she became so important. Again, she doesn't mind as much as she ought to.

"I don't care," she murmurs, reaching back and taking one of his hands in hers. She could learn these calluses, she thinks, get used to the hidden gentleness of him. She wants to. "I trust your judgment."

"I'm not sure if _I_ do," he replies, almost laughing.

"Still a few more days before anyone else is going to see me, unless something goes wildly wrong. As long as you can stand to look at it…"

She turns her head and tries to make eye contact at the same moment he blushes. It's a good look on him, half-hidden by scruff - he is becoming wild, and there is a certain kind of beauty in that. One of these days, she decides, she's going to crash into all of that. Not now, not at any point she can pin down, but someday. When the timing is right for her to risk herself again.

"I… you look… it works."

She suspects she's the only person who's _ever_ made him speechless, and the frequency with which she's doing it… yeah, that plan of jumping up and kissing him will probably break the poor man. But she's a little less worried about that being undesired.

"Thank you."

"Do you need anything else, Abby?"

"Can you… can you stay for a little while? I've been alone too long."

He sits down on the edge of the bed and reaches for her hand again, and they are both too young and too old for all of this, and she wonders if maybe this is what love feels like. Chaos and uncertainty and warmth despite it all, as he starts tracing patterns on her skin like she's pretty sure he does when he's nervous. Something complicated and terrifying and wonderful.

"Do you want to talk?" he asks, hesitant again.

"Tell me what you did today. What's happening outside of this box. Please."

"So one of the kids thought they saw a squirrel…"


End file.
